Confessions: Voyeur

I want someone who, early in the morning, secretly watches me from the warmth of the bed in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. He sees me at the stove: my right foot propped against my left ankle while I stir honey into my still steaming cup of tea. He'd watch as a small stream of hot water trickles off the mug's handle - a telltale sign of vigorous stirring - and lands on my wool sock, which absorbs instantly into the fabric. He wonders what I'm staring at - probably nothing, in particular - out the kitchen window. He's watching this moment of calm knowing full well that it will pass. He knows that the hand-crafted mug I'm holding up to my parted lips - the one my mother spun on a wheel and molded with her weathered hands - will be thrown at him from across the living room on another not-so-mellow day. I want someone who sees all of this and watches it all unfold in front of him like he hadn't seen any of it at all. 

 

Happy Valentine's/Shmalentine's Day.